


i love him well

by scoutshonour



Series: i’m feeling better since you know me [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Minor Jonathan Byers/Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler, idk i'm dealing with stuff therefore jonathan is dealing with stuff, it'll hurt but then everything will feel good and soft i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:15:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27442534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoutshonour/pseuds/scoutshonour
Summary: Jonathan cried the first time he held Will.“Jesus fucking Christ,” Lonnie grumbled. “You said you werehappyabout this. Why are you crying if you’re happy?”(or: Jonathan with his father and later, Jonathan with his dad)
Relationships: Jonathan Byers & Jim "Chief" Hopper, Jonathan Byers & Joyce Byers & Will Byers, Jonathan Byers & Lonnie Byers
Series: i’m feeling better since you know me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1424002
Comments: 30
Kudos: 75





	i love him well

**Author's Note:**

> hi there!
> 
> wrt the warnings: there is no doubt child abuse with the first half of the story. past physical abuse is described a few times with one brief instance in the early parts of this fic. if you'd rather skip all the lonnie stuff - which is valid!! - ctrl f for when hopper's name first pops up, and you're good!
> 
> also i'm positive some of the pre-canon scenes might contradict canon but i wrote this all without considering that and by the time i thought. wait. is this wrong? the fic was already done so!! whatever canon is nothing but a number of suggestions and we don't have to accept them all!!
> 
> title from alexi murdoch's "some day soon"

Lonnie was the one to tell him about Will.

“Guess what?” He’d drawled, lounging on their sofa with his legs spread, a brown bottle in his hands. “You’re gonna be a _brother_.”

“Really?” From his spot on the floor, four-year-old Jonathan looked up at his mother who sighed as she sat next to Lonnie. 

“I’d wanted a picture of his face when we told him, you know.” The exhaustion in her face melted when her eyes met Jonathan’s. She patted her knee, gestured for him to join her on the sofa.

He stood up, lifted himself onto the sofa, and burrowed himself in her side. “A baby? We’ll have a _baby_?”

She smiled, raking his hair away from his eyes, and even at this age, Jonathan already knew his mom was pure sunshine. Nothing else could explain how warm she was or how soothing it was to lay his head against her arm. 

“We’ll have a baby.” She took his hand, pressed it gently against her stomach. “You’re gonna be the best big brother. I just know it.”

Lonnie slung an arm around the back of the sofa. His fingertips rested an inch away from Joyce’s shoulder. He kept his eyes on the television screen as he asked, “You excited, kid?”

Jonathan nodded eagerly. He felt movement in Joyce’s stomach, sharp and sudden, and his eyes went wide. “Mom? Are you okay? That hurt. Did that hurt you? Was it a tummy-ache?”

“Not a tummy-ache, no.” She twined their fingers together, looking warmly at their joined hands on her stomach. Another swift movement. His arms broke out in shivers but it wasn’t fear that gripped his heart. It was awe. 

“He knows it’s you,” Joyce said, a laugh crackling over her voice. “Your little brother. He knows you’re here and he can’t wait to meet you.”

The television remote fell to the floor. Both of its batteries popped out and rolled across the carpet. Jonathan winced, his hands automatically moving to cover his ears, but his hunched shoulders lowered at the sight of the same intense awe he felt, bright and all over Lonnie’s face.

“We’re having another boy? Why didn’t ya tell me earlier?”

“Remember thirty seconds ago, when you told Jonathan before I was ready, without asking me earlier?”

“Jesus Christ, Joyce, you’re actin’ like this is some big news—”

“ _Like_ it’s some big news?”

“He should’ve known by now anyway. Look at ya! You’re more than showing.”

“He’s _four_.” 

Lonnie rolled his eyes. “I know the age of my kid, thanks.” He looked down at Jonathan and even though he smiled, Jonathan felt like something was crawling over his skin and clung tighter to Joyce’s hand. “Don’t be sad about there bein’ a new baby and all, alright?”

“Sad? Why would I be sad?”

“‘Cuz, you know, new baby, all the attention goes to him, and _you’ll_ gotta grow up and—ow! What the hell, Joyce?”

Joyce glared at him, wrapping her arms around Jonathan. “Why are you trying to scare him? What is your _deal_? Let him be happy about it.”

“I am happy,” Jonathan said quietly, eyeing Joyce’s stomach again. “Really happy.”

.

.

.

Jonathan cried the first time he held Will.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Lonnie grumbled. “You said you were _happy_ about this. Why are you crying if you’re happy?”

They were all laying in bed, Jonathan squeezed between a fast-asleep Joyce and an unfortunately awake Lonnie. Jonathan kept crying but for a completely different reason. He could feel his father breathing next to him, could smell that familiar sour stench, could feel all of his hot tears rushing down his face. It was all too much. He couldn’t take it.

Until Will raised his hand and touched his small pink pinky finger to Jonathan’s and suddenly, magically, everything was bearable.

.

.

.

He honestly didn’t mean to. 

He’d just wanted to see what was inside. It looked odd. The colour of apple juice, but a stronger smell of something he couldn’t name but still recognized. 

“Don’t fucking touch it.”

“But what _is_ it?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Can I have some?”

“Sure, if you want your mother to kill me, I’m serious, don’t touch—my fucking god. Why’d you do that?”

A crash. Shards of glass all over. Two pieces sliced his feet and made him cry, but if the cup smashed on the floor, then why did his head hurt? 

Jonathan touched his forehead, looking up at his dad through clouded eyes. “I didn’t mean to.” 

Lonnie lowered his hand but took a single step forward. Jonathan stumbled backwards so quickly that he fell and hit his head on the tiled floor. He couldn’t tell what scared him more: the fresh pain shooting across every inch of his body or the laugh Lonnie barked out.

“Why’re you so scared, son? Don’t tell me you’re scared of me?”

“I’m not,” Jonathan whispered. He flicked the biggest shard of glass away from his foot. A large drop of blood splattered across the floor. “But you hurt me. Why would you do that?”

“ _Jonathan_!?”

His head snapped up to the doorway. Joyce came running in, still in her nightdress, her lines of exhaustion pronounced with the guttural noise she made. She breathlessly sank to her knees in front of him. “What happened? Lonnie, what did you do? Why are you both awake?”

“Baby’s been screaming every nice since he was born, he’s turned me nocturnal,” Lonnie said. “Don’t know why this one was up. He broke my glass, Joy, just smacked it out of my hand—”

“You couldn’t sleep, Jonathan?” Joyce gently nudged him away from the glass. She looked at his foot and the colour in her face drained. He didn’t want to look down. There was more than one drop of blood on the floor now, so much that he saw it in the corner of his eye, but it didn’t hurt as much as seeing the big tears welling up in Joyce’s eyes.

“You be honest with me,” she said softly. “Did Dad do this?”

“Joy, you’ve gotta be fucking joking—”

“Did he hurt you? Did he hit you? You can tell me.”

Lonnie hopped off the stool by the kitchen counter. He approached them, stayed a careful two feet away. Over Joyce’s shoulder, he met Jonathan’s eyes and all the lines in his face smoothed over. There wasn’t that scary look in his eyes anymore; something softer, almost warm had replaced it. This was just his dad. He hadn’t meant to hurt Jonathan. It’d been an accident.

“He ... he didn’t,” Jonathan said. “I dropped the cup and I fell.”

Joyce held his face with both of her hands. “Is that true?”

Wasn’t it? He’d reached for the cup. He knocked it down. He tripped over his feet and that was why he’d fallen. That was all that happened.

“Yes.” Jonathan pulled another shard out from his foot but that just made more blood squirt out. 

“I’ll get the bandages. You hang in there, alright, little man?” Lonnie looked at Jonathan, waiting for a reply.

Jonathan blinked back the wetness from his eyes. “Okay.”

Lonnie winked. He gave a half-smile and then ran out of the kitchen right as Joyce lifted Jonathan into her arms and now, finally, he felt safe. 

.

.

.

“You’re going to drop him.”

“I know how to hold my fuckin’ kid,” Lonnie spat, throwing a toddler-sized Will into the air again. He smiled lazily, all smug at making Will laugh as if Will didn’t find everything funny. Jonathan not only knew how to make Will laugh more often, but he knew how to do it safer too.

Joyce didn’t like it when Lonnie got this _casual_ with Will either but she wasn’t here to scold him. He couldn’t remember the last time she was home for dinner, too busy with managing night-shifts so she could watch Will during the day. Jonathan didn’t really know where Lonnie went during the day, except for the fact that it wasn’t to his job judging from all the shouting that regularly woke him up in the mornings. 

Lonnie caught Will. He swung around from his spot in front of the sofa and gave Will a small shake in Jonathan’s direction. “See? He’s fine. Aren’t ya fine, Willie?”

Will nodded rapidly. He kicked back and forth. “Again!”

“I gotcha kid. See, Jonathan, you don’t gotta worry this much. You’re just like your mother.” Jonathan didn’t like how his dad said it. There wasn’t anything wrong with being like his mom. It was a compliment but from the way Lonnie said it, his nose flared and his mouth wrinkled, he had meant for it to be an insult.

Jonathan was eight years old and he’d already known it was better— _safer_ —if he kept his mouth shut and let his complaint die in his throat than speak up. 

Until five minutes later.

He’d heard a violent crash and the burst of sobs all the way from the washroom. He was midway through washing his hands and had soap all over his fingers but didn’t bother washing it off, chasing the sounds of his brother’s cries back to where he’d left him and Lonnie.

He found Will on the floor, clutching his reddened forehead, tears all over his splotchy face. He was already so small but he looked even tinier beneath their father who tried yanking Will up by the wrist.

Jonathan didn’t make a conscious decision to run up to Lonnie and smack his hand away. He just did. “What did you _do_?” 

“Could you all please calm the fuck down? Kids fall all the time,” Lonnie grunted, snatching his hand away with an eye-roll. “It’s not a big deal. He’ll be fine.”

“You said you had him.”

“And I did. Not my fault Will moves around so much. But he’s fine. Aren’t you?”

When Lonnie outstretched his hand, Will curled his legs up and shifted away. “You dropped me,” he accused. 

Jonathan’s jaw twitched. “Did you do it on _purpose_?”

“Are you insane? Why would I do that?”

 _Because you’re a monster,_ Jonathan thought. He bit his lip hard to keep quiet and turned his back to Lonnie, crouching in front of Will. “Can I see?”

Without a beat of hesitation, Will dropped his hand. He let Jonathan touch the back of his head, wincing but not moving away when Jonathan’s fingers ghosted the beginning of a bump. Something stuck to his thumb. When he drew his hand back and saw red, he wanted to cry. 

But Will already was and Lonnie’s patience was thin enough with one of his sons crying. He needed to stay calm. 

“How do you feel?” Jonathan asked in the most soothing voice he could manage. 

Will’s chin trembled. He looked from Jonathan to Lonnie and Jonathan could see it, Will adjusting his behaviour, filtering himself and his reaction, knowing their dad needed to be placated more than Will needed to feel whatever he felt. He was too young for this. 

“C’mon,” Jonathan said, offering Will his hand. “We can make it better.”

Will took Jonathan’s hand and let him pull him up to his feet. Jonathan’s shoulders shook as he walked them past their Lonnie but Lonnie didn’t try and touch Will again. He didn’t even say anything, just grumbled to himself and plopped back onto the sofa as the brothers went to the kitchen.

Jonathan made them both hot cocoa. He had trouble reaching the mugs on the top cabinet, so he asked Will if he wanted to sit upon his shoulders and reach. “I won’t drop you,” he promised. 

Will looked at him with his big eyes and raised his arms. “I know.”

They retrieved two mugs and Jonathan let Will put in as many marshmallows as he wanted and in turn, Will let Jonathan touch his head long enough to put a bandaid. There wasn’t much blood, just a few drops that dried in his hair. Will had stopped crying the moment they left Lonnie but, over twenty minutes later as they sat across from each other at the dining table, Jonathan had the strangest urge to cry. 

“How’s the drawing?” He tried his best to keep his voice as normal as possible but it cracked anyway. 

Will didn’t seem to notice. He just lifted his drawing and faced it towards Jonathan. “Us!” All it took were Will’s two stick figures with patches of brown hair, black mugs in their hands, a sun in the top right corner, and a big rainbow behind them for Jonathan’s eyes to dry.

“It is us,” Jonathan agreed, unable to keep the big goofy smile off his face. “It’s a really nice drawing. Maybe we can hang it up.”

“It’s not done yet.”

“No?”

“Nope. Needa add mom and dad too.”

“Of course,” Jonathan said quietly. He stared at the bottom of his mug where the last few drops of his hot cocoa and a melted marshmallow remained. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

Across the house, applause crackled from the television. The familiar _snap_ of a can being opened snapped followed by the recline of their old, wobbly armchair. Jonathan usually felt his nausea in his chest, right before he threw up, but today it brewed deeper and longer in his stomach.

“When dad dropped you,” Jonathan started, “did he mean to? Or was it an accident?” 

Will didn’t look up from his drawing. “What d’ya mean?”

“Never-mind.” As Jonathan watched his baby brother colour in an orange blouse for their stick-mother, Will’s tongue poking out of his mouth as he concentrated, he decided he didn’t want to know.

.

.

.

Ten minutes later, when the sun had finally set and the world beyond their kitchen window was lightless and empty, Lonnie stepped into the kitchen. “How’re you feeling, kid?”

“I’m okay,” Will said, plucking a pink crayon from his packet. “Jonathan got me a bandaid. And made me hot cocoa. And told me you didn’t mean it.”

“ _You_ fell outta my hands, son.” Lonnie came up behind Will and ruffled his hair. He peered over Will’s shoulder, his mouth falling open at his drawing until it promptly snapped shut with a grin. He picked up the sheet of paper and brought it close to his eyes, laughing when Will raised his arms to grab it back but couldn’t reach it. “You drew me.”

“I drew everyone!” Will made grabby hands again, his face wrinkling up adorably as he tried to stand on the seat. But before he could, Lonnie gave his drawing back.

“Sure did. Aye, you give me that once it’s done. I’ll put it in my wallet.”

Jonathan thought it would look better on the fridge but he just slouched in his chair and bit his tongue.

Which of course did nothing to keep Lonnie’s attention away from him. 

“Are you still mad?” He said it with a laugh like the idea of Jonathan’s anger was funny. Silly boy and his silly feelings. 

Jonathan tilted his chin up and forced himself to look his dad right in the eye and say, in the clearest, calmest voice possible, “Are you sorry about it?”

“Of course I am. Y’know, it _hurts_ that you think I wouldn’t be,” Lonnie said, his eyes narrowed. Jonathan felt a deep wave of guilt wash over him and hung his head low, looping his thumb through a hole above his knee. An apology sat on the top of his tongue but he didn’t trust his dry throat to get the words out.

“Why don’t we order pizza?” Lonnie suggested. “We can go for a drive. Place closes in fifteen minutes. It’s a ten-minute drive but I betcha we can make it in five.”

That didn’t sound safe in the slightest, especially not with how heavily Lonnie slurred his words. But he knew even if he said something, that’d just earn him another _you’re just like your mother_ which, to Lonnie, was a flaw. One of Jonathan’s many shortcomings. 

“C’mon, Johnny,” Lonnie said. “We’ll get Willie’s favourite topping but _you_ can choose the drinks. And we’ll get a side of fries, you like their curly fries, don’t cha?”

Joyce would be very disappointed in him losing all of his resolve _this_ quickly at the offer of a side of curly fries. But Jonathan was eight and curly fries sounded _great,_ especially considering he hadn’t eaten dinner and his stomach had started to rumble. It would be okay. Jonathan would go and he could keep Will safe if anything happened and Joyce would still be disappointed, but only a little because they’d bring her curly fries too.

(She was disappointed. Just not in Jonathan. She’d scolded Lonnie, got close to yelling again, but then Will brought her the share of curly fries and two slices of pizza they’d left her, and it was impossible to be mad about anything with the sight of Will’s puppy dog eyes and greasy food.)

“Okay,” Jonathan relented. 

Lonnie’s face split into a grin that made Jonathan’s shoulders sag just a little as he sighed in relief. “Perfect. You can even sit in the front seat. Choose your own music. How’s that sound?”

Jonathan perked up. “Really?”

“‘Course.” Lonnie’s grin softened around the edges. “You always pick the best music. C’mon, let’s go before the pizzeria closes up.” He looked back at Will colouring and wrinkled his nose, snatching the pink crayon out of Will’s hand. He cracked it in two. “Don’t use that colour again, alright?” 

.

.

.

It got harder to just tell himself _he’s my dad._ The sentences stopped comforting him and instead left him with the burning question of _why?_

But of course, there wasn’t an answer that would make him feel better. People didn’t get to choose their dads. No one would choose to have to kill a rabbit for their tenth birthday and get yelled at for crying uncontrollably, to hear your mother sobbing in the bathroom in the middle of the night while she thought you were asleep, to have your living room crowded with your dad’s drunk friends, celebrating the visit of an old high school buddy who came into town, the same man who grabbed you roughly by the shoulder and said, “Aye, you gotta take care of your old man, okay? He needs you.”

Eleven-year-old Jonathan’s skin burned where the man held him. His throat burned with how badly he wanted to say that he shouldn’t have to take care of someone who didn’t even _care_ about him. His heart burned because he knew it was true, that Lonnie needed him, that even though he didn’t care about their family, he loved them—not in any way that mattered but enough that Jonathan’s guilt was suffocating. That he kind of hated himself for hating his dad.

“Do you think they’re gonna get a _divorce_?” Will asked him later that night, whispering ‘divorce’ like it was a bad word.

Across the house, the screaming got louder. It still made his chest constrict but at least it didn’t hurt his ears anymore. He stopped searching through his mixtapes to plop next to Will, his bed dipping with his added weight.

He bumped their shoulders, asking, “How do you even know what divorce is?”

“I know things.”

“I know that. But this thing specifically. How do you know what that is?”

Will’s face turned pink. He smiled nervously, fiddling with the drawstrings of his sweatpants—a hand-me-down from Jonathan, somehow bigger on Will than it was when Jonathan owned it. “I heard them say it last week,” Will admitted. “You were in the bathroom. They thought I was already asleep. I looked it up in the dictionary but I kinda already knew what it was ‘cuz of how they said it.”

“Oh.” A lump formed in Jonathan’s throat. He’d heard them talk about leaving each other but never use the actual word ‘divorce’. “They’re not—they wouldn’t—”

“ _You look me in the eye and tell me that boy’s not a q—”_

“Don’t worry,” Jonathan said louder, drowning out Lonnie’s screams. “It’ll be fine, okay? We’ll be fine.” 

“You’re not scared?”

“No,” Jonathan lied. It left a sick taste in his mouth because he knew Lonnie lied to Joyce all the time but with how watery Will’s eyes were and how his hands were shaking in his lap, this lie felt different. It felt like the right thing to do. “I’m not scared. Are you?”

“A little. They’re really loud. Kinda hurts my ears.”

Jonathan’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Let’s fix that.” He leapt off of his bed and dragged his hand across his lined up mix-tapes. “Tell me when to stop.”

“Mm ... stop!”

Jonathan picked the mixtape his hand stopped at. “You’re okay with loud music, right?” 

“ _Yes_!” Jonathan could hear the smile in Will’s voice. “But won’t that make them more mad?”

More yelling. Joyce’s voice cracked, raw with anger. He knew from tone alone that the conversation centred on Joyce’s ardent defence for both of her sons against Lonnie tearing them apart. She always got angrier about this than the overflowing stack of unpaid bills, the bottles of alcohol stuffed in the trash bin. 

Jonathan understood he wasn’t enough for Lonnie. Fine, whatever. It stung but what stung worse was that Lonnie didn’t even care that _he_ wasn’t enough for Jonathan. It should have mattered to Lonnie. Why didn’t it?

“They won’t even notice we’re playing anything,” Jonathan promised.

.

.

.

A week before he turned thirteen, Jonathan found himself walking home from school side-by-side with Nancy Wheeler. Their little brothers were a good two feet ahead of them, laughing nonsensically about a game of dodgeball they’d played in class. Jonathan thought it was kind of weird that a bunch of eight-year-olds were forced into dodgeball—they were so _tiny_ and he didn’t like the idea of an adult telling children to hit each other with balls. He opened his mouth to tell Nancy that, knowing she’d share his disapproval because she cared about things openly and completely, but she spoke first.

“What’s that on your wrist?” Judging from how quickly she paled and stopped dead in her tracks, she already knew.

Jonathan hastily shoved his hands into his pockets, angling his right arm away from her. “Nothing.”

“Jonathan ...”

“It’s paint. We painted in art today. You have orange paint on your nose and I’ve got purple on mine, it’s not a—”

She crinkled her orange-dotted nose. “I know what that is. I don’t—did someone at school do this? Carl got suspended last week for pushing Sam down the hill and breaking his arm, so whoever did this to you can get suspended too, and I bet we can even get them expelled—”

“Nancy,” he said, pained. It warmed his heart to see the determination all over her face, the fury in her voice as she went on about how useless the bullying policies were, how the school only dealt with them if parents got involved.

“If your mom’s too busy to come in, my mom will do it,” Nancy said firmly. “Seriously. Just tell me who did it and we’ll fix it.”

“I can’t.”

Ahead of them, waiting at the stop sign, Mike called out, “Guys! _Hurry up_!”

Nancy ignored him. “Why not? Jonathan, no one can get away with hurting you, it’s not right that these boys think they can just—” Seeing the realization dawn on her face hurt worse than getting the bruise on his wrist. She deflated, her anger melting into a well of sadness that made him want to apologize profusely. “It’s not a boy, is it? Not someone we can expel, either?”

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

Her eyes welled up but that determined glint didn’t fade. “It’s still not right. He can’t just do that.”

Dead leaves rustled by their feet, a blur of orange and red in his peripheral. He glanced at Will and Mike who still waited by the stop-sign but weren’t looking at Jonathan and Nancy anymore. They had dumped their backpacks on the sidewalk and took turns dumping leaves over the other’s head, their cackles ringing through the neighbourhood. 

“He can. He does,” Jonathan said gently. “Nancy, it’s okay—”

“It’s _not_. Look at me,” she said, and he did. He kind of always did. When she raised her hand in class and waved her arm impatiently, when she and Barb skipped rope in recess with no one actually skipping and the two just talking at opposite ends of the rope, the midday sunlight framing her face as she laughed at one of Barb’s dry remarks, and now, with another gust of wind blowing her hair in every direction, her blue eyes cold with rage, her shaky smile warm with fondness. It’d be impossible to look away even if he wanted to. 

“It’s not okay to treat anyone like that,” she continued. “Especially not your own son! You deserve better. You and your mom and Will. He can go to prison. He _should_ go to prison. I can tell my mom, we can go to the Chief, together—I don’t know what the right thing to do is but ...” Her gaze fell downcast to where he hid his wrist in his pocket. “I know there’s something we can do. There _has_ to be. He can’t get away with this.”

All the hope bursting from her was infectious. His bruise pulsed. His heartbeat slowed into a steady, reassuring hum in his ears. 

“No,” Jonathan said calmly. “He can’t.”

.

.

.

A few days later, Joyce and Lonnie were arguing in the kitchen. Jonathan and Will were holed up in Jonathan’s bedroom. Jonathan couldn’t get the music loud enough to drown out the screaming and Will couldn’t stop crying and he didn’t know what to focus on more: listening to the argument in case it got worse, trying to calm Will down, and trying to keep himself from crying. 

He thought about what Nancy said. She was right about this the same way she was right about everything. Enough was enough. 

“I’ll be right back,” Jonathan told Will. “Just stay here, okay? Promise me you’ll stay here.”

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” Will said wetly.

Jonathan nodded. He squeezed both of Will’s shoulders before he left his room, shut the door behind him, and padded down the hallway into the kitchen. His heart pounded so violently it felt like it would break free from his chest but as Joyce burst into angry tears, he knew nothing could stop him now.

He peeked into the kitchen.

“Sign it and get the hell out of my house,” Joyce was hissing, her finger jabbed into Lonnie’s chest as she shoved a stack of papers into his stomach.

He stepped into view and cleared his throat.

Lonnie and Joyce turned their heads and looked at him. Her face fell, his twisted into a scowl.

“Go back to your room,” Lonnie seethed.

“Get out of this house.” Jonathan lifted his arm, rolled up the sleeve of his right arm, and pointed to the blotch of purple that painted his skin. “Get out or I call the police and tell them what you did, I’ll tell them everyt—”

Joyce’s eyes widened, a broken sob escaping her as she shoved Lonnie backwards. “What did you do to my son?” 

Lonnie’s face screwed up. He regained his balance and started towards her, but she moved out of the way towards Jonathan. “What did he do? You can tell me.” As she fully turned to face him, he noticed it. Apparently, the music had cancelled out some of their fight. It certainly blocked out Joyce receiving her split lip.

Jonathan saw red. 

A few hours later, Lonnie was gone. Divorce papers that had apparently been in the house for months already were signed. Castle Byers was built. The heavy rain gave Jonathan and Will colds but it had been worth it. 

.

.

.

That following Friday, he walked to the Wheeler’s to pick up Will. He rang the doorbell and thought about what to say if he saw Nancy but before he could come up with anything semi-decent, the door swung open.

And there she was.

“It really doesn’t look that bad,” Jonathan said quickly. “Didn’t really hurt.”

She took one second to gawk before she closed her mouth and tried for a smile. “I’m sure the other guy got it worse. Did he? Sorry, you don’t have to answer—”

“He did. It’s okay. It’s okay and I actually mean that.”

“Oh thank god,” Nancy exhaled. “You weren’t in school yesterday and neither was Will and I didn’t want to ask Will today in case something had happened, which something did happen, and your eye, Jonathan, I sound terrible saying this but it looks awful. It looked like it hurt. Are you okay? Dumb question. But are you? Is your mom?”

“We’re fine. He’s—” Jonathan’s breath hitched. His jacket wasn’t strong enough against the biting wind. 

She took notice and nodded her head down the hall. “Come in.”

He trailed after her and followed her into the kitchen, gingerly standing by the counter until she told him he could sit if he wanted. 

“He’s gone,” he finally said, staring at the floral tablecloth. “He’s not coming back.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I only stayed home because I got a cold but it’s passed and you won’t get it, so don’t—”

“Jonathan. You know what I mean.”

He met her eyes and found himself stupidly choked up over how concerned she was for him. Before he could respond, Karen came into the kitchen and immediately took notice of Jonathan and if he’d thought Nancy’s response was overwhelming, Karen’s was ... there wasn’t really a word for that. And he meant it in truly the best way possible.

She made him a cup of hot chocolate with a million marshmallows in it. She gave him homemade cookies. She told him she made a meal for their family and would give it to Joyce after she drove Will and Jonathan home herself. She told him how nice it was for him to walk in the cold to get Will, how Nancy had been worried to death about how he was doing after he’d missed two days of school, how he was shaping up to be a fine young man. She’d smoothed his hair back and hugged him and stroked his back and he didn’t know what to do except thank her profusely.

“Nancy, honey, can you give us a minute?” Karen asked. “I just want to talk to Jonathan for a bit.”

Nancy looked reluctant, darting her eyes between Karen and Jonathan. 

“Just a minute, I promise,” Karen added. 

He gave Nancy a small nod, a nonverbal _I’ll be fine_.

She smiled in return, still looking hesitant, but she slid off her seat and left the kitchen.

Karen took her spot. She tipped the plate of cookies towards him with a bright smile. “You can take more if you’d like. I’ve got another batch in the oven.”

He wanted to be polite and say no but Karen Wheeler’s cookies were too powerful. “Thank you, Mrs. Wheeler.” He took another cookie, broke it in half, and shoved a piece into his mouth.

She dusted a piece of lint away from her pink blouse. Her smile faltered but it only got more sincere as she began to speak. “I know things must be ... well, I don’t know how hard it is but I know that it must be just that. But it’s important you know that you and your family aren’t alone right now. We’re happy to help, okay? Your mother is one of the strongest people I know, your brother is a sweetheart, and you, Jonathan, you’re ... well, you’re a lovely young man with so much ahead of you. Your family’s very lucky to have you.”

He touched his black eye without thinking about it. It didn’t even sting.

“Thank you,” he said through a mouthful of cookie, which was rude, but she needed to hear it. He needed to say it.

“No need. You always have a place here, okay?”

The other half of the cookie stuck to his palm but he didn’t pay any mind to that. “Okay.” He forced a smile. It didn’t take a lot of effort. 

Ten minutes later, Karen and Will were seated in the car. Jonathan was just about to climb in when Nancy called out his name from her doorway. 

He ran back up to her, a little out of breath. “What is it?”

She lifted out a stack of paper. “What you missed from school. I know, great present.”

Catching up would already be a pain but just thinking about the two whole lessons of math he missed made him groan. Until he looked down and noticed the neat and colourful notes at the top of the stack. “Did you ... did you take notes for me?”

“Figured I’d make giving you all this work just a little easier.” She held his schoolwork towards him with a sheepish smile.

He accepted his work with a grin too bright to be about math and held the sheets to his chest. “Thanks a ton. Your notes look really nice.”

“Yeah, no problem. But uh, before you go, I just—come inside for a sec?”

He furrowed his eyebrows but did as she asked, his confusion deepening when she closed the door behind him. “What is—” He nearly dropped all the papers when Nancy tackled him into a ferocious hug with more force than he expected. For a few moments, he stood there, utterly dumbfounded as she slotted her arms around his neck and enveloped him in pure warmth.

“I know we’re not _really_ friends,” she said in his shoulder. “But I think of you like one, you know? You’re not Mike’s friend’s brother, you know, you’re ... you’re you. You’re Jonathan. You hunch your shoulders a lot and you always use blue pens and you do that thing where you bite your lip to keep from laughing but the corners of your mouth twitch anyway so it doesn’t really work and I want you to be well. You’re going to be well. Okay?”

Slowly, he winded his arms around her waist. He let his eyes drift shut. He was going to be well. They all were. “Okay. Nancy?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. I want you to be well too. You’re really great, you know that? Not just for what you said now, and last week, but for what you always say.” It seemed like a stupid thing to say but then she held him tighter and he felt proud of himself for saying the right thing.

“ _Jonathan? Is everything okay?”_

Karen’s alarmed voice made them both immediately untangle from each other. They flew apart, awkwardly laughing, and staring at different spots on the carpet.

“Thanks for the homework. And the other stuff.”

“You too.”

He found the courage to look her in the eyes long enough to smile at her before he turned around and skidded across the driveway.

“Wait! Jonathan?”

He looked over his shoulder. 

Nancy wrapped her arms around herself, another shy smile on her face. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” he called out, his grip on his homework tightening. Math notes were a strange birthday gift but he loved it all the same.

.

.

.

Things got better but they also didn’t.

Within a few months, Jonathan started working part-time. He ate his lunch in the library and worked the rest of the period there because all of his time spent outside of school was spent working.

He learned to function on less sleep, to endure long shifts, to love coffee, to not resent all of his peers for not having to work for their existence like he did, and most importantly, he learned that the best motivators were the bits of peace in between. Sharing a heap of pancakes with Joyce and Will in the morning, the drive back from the grocery store to the soundtrack of everyone’s voices intermingled with Jonathan’s music, afternoon walks with Chester. 

He found a rhythm. And then Will went missing and everything that followed was hell but we already know how that played out. It was kind of like his parents’ post-divorce: things got better, things got worse, the two mixed, and they all found a new normal.

A new normal that involved Jim Hopper.

Which.

Listen.

Jonathan knew, okay? Hopper was a good man. So was Bob before he died. And so was Lonnie, kind of.

The thing that Jonathan didn’t like to think about most was that it wasn’t always bad—there were pictures of Lonnie holding him, smiling at him, looking at Jonathan with something that was almost honest to god love. There are fuzzy memories of sitting with his head in Lonnie’s lap while Lonnie watched a sports game, his big hand warm and nearly gentle in Jonathan’s hair, and when Jonathan eventually fell asleep, he’d wake up in his own bed, having been carried and tucked in.

It was why Jonathan allowed himself his wariness of Hopper. Hopper had protected their family more than once. He loved El with everything he had. Everyone else seemed to trust him and yes, Jonathan trusted him with his life but with his family? Some cautiousness couldn’t hurt.

He didn’t really expect Hopper to try so hard at proving him wrong. He didn’t expect it to work, either.

.

.

.

He didn’t realize weekly dinners with Hopper and El had become a thing until late January of his junior year.

Fresh out of the shower, he entered the kitchen and stopped abruptly when he only found Joyce and Will seated.

“I know,” Will said. “I was confused too. They’re running late with the snow and everything.” 

“But they’re coming?” Jonathan clarified, dropping into the seat next to Joyce.

Despite his wet hair, she pushed a few locks away from his eyes. “They’re coming. Don’t worry.”

 _I wasn’t worrying,_ he almost said until he realized that no, he had. 

“You try it first,” Will said with an amused smile.

Jonathan lightly elbowed Joyce. “Yeah, mom.”

Joyce let out a surprised laugh, wagging her finger between them. “You do not get to gang up on me. I made you.”

“You did. Now deal with the consequences,” Jonathan teased.

“You were _not_ consequences! I resent that term,” she said. “You were gifts.”

Will made a face. “Labour doesn’t sound like a gift.”

“It isn’t. But you two made it worth it.” 

Jonathan stretched his arms above his head. “How does every conversation we have get sappy in less than sixty seconds?” 

“Not sixty seconds,” Will protested. “More like fifty seconds.”

“Very funny,” Joyce said. “Thirty seconds is _way_ more accurate.”

Around ten minutes later, a knock on the door sounded. Jonathan was closest to the doorway so he leapt off his seat before anyone else could to get it.

He figured El and Hop would have some snow over them. Still, the sight of El’s hair and Hop’s beard completely decorated in snowflakes and the snow stuck to their jackets threw him for a loop.

“Don’t,” Hop said but even he was already smiling. “We wanted to enjoy the snow for a bit. Might have got carried away.”

“Snow angels are fun. I’m cold now but I regret nothing.” El thrust a warm container into Jonathan’s hands. “He made it. I watched.”

“That’s not true,” Hop said. “You criticized me too.”

She bumped her elbow into his arm before she stepped inside. “ _You_ don’t measure things properly. Lucas says eye-level. You don’t even use the measuring things.”

“No one really does,” Jonathan said.

Hopper chuckled and stepped inside, closing the front door behind him. “That’s what I said!” 

El looked at Jonathan like he’d just betrayed her. “You’re both _wrong_. Lucas’s mama does. I bet you your mama does too.”

“She doesn’t.”

El gasped. “Lie.”

“I’d never lie to you.”

“I know. It was a joke.”

“Very funny?”

“That’s a lie.” She patted his arm, took her boots off, and ran across the hall.

Hopper looked amused at the sight of Jonathan. “She likes you. That’s all that means.”

“I know what she means,” he said, a touch defensive. “I just—there’s no one like her. It surprises me but in a good way.”

“I know what you mean.”

Jonathan cleared his throat. “You, uh, cooked?”

They started a slow descent towards the kitchen. Jonathan’s face had already heated up. He knew how to talk to Hopper alone ... for about thirty, maybe forty seconds at a time. 

“I hear the apprehension in your voice but I swear it’s edible.”

“That sounds very promising.”

Hopper laughed, inadvertently tugging a smile out of Jonathan. “I’m not gonna poison ya.”

“Think you’re gonna have to take a bite of this first. Just so I’m sure.”

They entered the kitchen. Joyce perked up, wearing a small smile as they settled into their seats at the table. “What’s the joke?”

“He cooked something,” Jonathan explained. “Wait, that’s not—that’s why we’re laughing. Wait. It’s not funny that he cooked. I need to stress that. It’s more like ...”

“Let me save you,” Will said. “Hopper cooked and it’s funny that he thinks we’ll like it.”

Hopper hung his jacket over the back of his seat. “Was that supposed to be better?”

Will looked confused. “Wasn’t it?”

El reached across the table and touched Joyce’s wrist. “Do you use the measuring thing when you make food?”

“Of course she does,” Will answered. “Don’t you?”

“Great question,” Joyce said which El correctly took as a no judging from her mouth pressed into a thin line. “Most of the time I do! But sometimes, you’re in a rush and you don’t have the time.”

“But Lucas’s mama uses them,” El said, distressed. “Her muffins are nice. Dad’s are not.”

“I’ve never even _made_ muffins,” Hopper mumbled.

“Exactly.”

“I like muffins,” Jonathan said in an attempt to wipe the disappointment off of El’s face but that just made her flat look at Hopper even flatter.

“And you don’t even make muffins,” El sighed, smoothing her wet hair back. 

Hopper raised an eyebrow at Joyce. He popped the lid of his container and cut a piece of it out and set a square of it on Will’s plate. It was lasagna; he’d never made it for them but it looked oddly familiar.

Hopper looked at Joyce. “Care to settle this?”

“Oh, but you can do that just fine,” Joyce teased. “Use measuring cups and make muffins. Easy.”

“ _You_ also have to use measuring cups.”

“I do!”

“I’ve been in this kitchen way too many times to know you don’t have measuring spoons—”

“Because I don’t _need_ them. You on the other hand? Tell me how many millilitres are in a tablespoon?”

“Hm. More than one.”

Joyce bit her growing smile. “Continue.”

“Less than a hundred?”

“This is why El likes my cooking more.”

“ _Hold on_ —”

Will’s eyes caught Jonathan’s. He raised both eyebrows, the corners of his mouth raised in a knowing smile as he dug his fork into Hopper’s lasagna. 

“But I do like hers more,” El said, prompting Joyce to laugh so hard her face flushed pink.

Jonathan returned Will’s gaze and their matching smiles broadened. He then tried to lift his plate so he could start adding mashed potatoes to his plate but his plate was missing. “Where’s my—”

“One sec.” Hopper had filled the rest of Jonathan’s plate and was now cutting a larger piece of his lasagna for the last untouched corner of the plate. “There we go.” He set it back in front of Jonathan without having to look to ensure it landed in front of him, his eyes trained on Joyce. “Please get back to criticizing me. No, I’m serious, I wanna learn more! Would you believe me if I said I got my lasagna recipe from—”

“Mrs. Wheeler!” Will exclaimed through a mouthful. “That’s why it tastes familiar!”

Hopper lit up. “So I got it right then? It tastes alright?”

“I mean, no one can compare to Mrs. Wheeler, so you’re definitely not as—”

“Let me save you,” Jonathan interrupted. He took a small hasty bite and licked the sauce from his lips. “It tastes like Mrs. Wheeler’s so it’s good. Really good. You actually made this? On your own?”

“On his own,” El confirmed. She poked her piece of lasagna curiously. “Good work. Very proud.”

Joyce lightly swatted Hop’s arm with her folded napkin. “So you can cook. Good to know.” 

“Aye, their words mean nothing if you don’t like it.” Hopper paused. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Jonathan, Will, and El traded looks. Will spoke on their behalf: “We take it back.”

.

.

.

“You’re not tall enough.”

“Great. So as the taller person, you wanna help me out or keep sitting in my bed, looking pretty, while you watch me look for the necklace?”

“You think I’m pretty?”

Jonathan bit his lip in an unsuccessful attempt to stifle his smile, so as he lowered himself from his tiptoes and swung around to face Steve, he let his smile take up his entire face. “Are you blushing?”

Steve flopped onto his back, laughing in his hands. “Fuck off, man. Go back to being annoyed with me.”

“Oh, but I’m _always_ annoyed with you.” Jonathan got distracted about his mission to reach the back of his closet, all but running to lay next to Steve on his bed. 

Steve jabbed his fingers into Jonathan’s stomach. Jonathan batted his arm away, shrieking out an involuntary laugh, but relaxed when Steve just slung his arm around Jonathan’s waist and pulled him close. “You really mean that?”

“No,” Jonathan said easily, twining their fingers. “Not at all.”

“I’m swooning.”

“Swooning _and_ blushing? My god are you easy.”

“What can I say, you punched your way right into my hea—hey! That was funny, stop tickling me!” 

Jonathan laughed as he rolled atop Steve, attacking him on both sides. “It was hilarious! That’s why I’m laughing.”

“You’re such a prick,” Steve wheezed.

“You really mean that?”

“Obviously not, you—”

“ _Any luck, Jonathan_?”

Jonathan and Steve scrambled off each other, their elbows and knees knocking with the speed they moved, only to end up falling on the floor and tangling even more with Jonathan underneath Steve.

“We’re like magnets,” Jonathan said dumbly.

But now Steve looked like he was actually swooning. “Dude, that’s so romantic. I’m getting off you now, but later, I’m gonna get you—”

“How’s it going in here?”

As soon as Jonathan’s door creaked, Steve sailed off of Jonathan and landed on the floor with a thud. Was it smooth? Absolutely not. But was it, along with how Steve had his elbow on the floor and his hand holding his chin up, terribly endearing? Definitely.

Joyce entered the room with a basket of her freshly-done laundry held by her hip. Her smile screamed confusion but she didn’t ask why both boys were on the floor, asking instead, “Any luck?”

“Your necklace isn’t in here,” Jonathan said, trying to conceal his breathlessness. Steve’s forefinger traced circles across Jonathan’s back, so easily that Jonathan found it very hard not to take his hand again. “But we’re gonna keep looking.”

“On the floor?”

“You never know,” Steve said. “But it’s not here, man. Go back to trying and failing at reaching the back of your closet.”

“Thank you for your encouragement.”

“Always.” Steve’s eyes crinkled with a smile. “You know what, I’ve got it. I’ll help reach for you, you short young man.”

“I’ll have you know I’m the tallest in my family.”

“Give Will a couple years,” Joyce said which terrified Jonathan, thanks. “Thank you both for looking. It should be in here somewhere, I just don’t—”

Will’s excited cry reverberated throughout the house. “I FOUND IT! IT’S VERY DUSTY! WHY IS IT THIS—” He cut himself off with a violent sneeze that had them all wince.

“Be right back!” Despite the clothes belonging to her, she set the basket against Jonathan’s wall before leaving the room with a skip to her step.

The second the door shut, Jonathan held Steve’s hand and Steve tucked one of his legs in between both of Jonathan’s.

“Who’d the necklace belong to? Your grandmother?” Steve asked, guiding Jonathan’s head onto his chest.

“Mhm. Mom’s mom. She wants El to have it but she couldn’t find it in her room and got scared that dad had pawned it off or something years ago without telling her.”

“Jesus. Had he done that before?”

“Not even to pay our own bills but for gambling money,” Jonathan recalled, the taste in his mouth bitter.

Steve pressed his nose into Jonathan’s hair the same way Nancy did when they were all squeezed into the same bed—usually Jonathan’s. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for something you didn’t do,” Jonathan said softly.

“It’s not like that. It’s—well, you’re not gonna get an apology from him about it but you should still get to hear one anyway.”

Jonathan’s heart squeezed. He tilted his chin up and pressed his lips gently against Steve’s. He thought how much his father would hate him for this, how little he cared about that, and pulled Steve closer by the shoulders.

A little later, the doorbell rang. Joyce was in the shower and Jonathan, Steve, and Will were on the floor in their living room. Will and Steve were talking shit about Hawkins’s middle school teachers, Jonathan too stunned and honestly amused by Will’s complaint that Mr. Jackson “needs to find a new goddamn line of work if he’s going to keep complaining about us asking questions and him having to do his job!” to contribute to the conversation.

“I’ve got it.” Jonathan stood up to his full height.

Will lifted their mother’s necklace and thrust it into Jonathan’s hand. “It’s probably Jim.”

“ _Jim_?”

Steve laughed presumably at how utterly dumbfounded Jonathan was.

“He said we can call him Jim,” Will said, appalled. “What? Am I supposed to call him Chief? Mr. Hopper?” 

“You could call him Hopper.”

“We have dinner with him every week. I’m not calling him Hopper.”

“ _Jim_ is better than Hopper?”

“Jonathan!” Will pointed his arm down the hall in the direction of their front door. “Are you gonna get the door and stop being all confused?”

Jonathan sighed, clutching Joyce’s necklace in his palm. “Sorry. I just wasn’t expecting that.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Will said firmly. “But, like, get the door.”

Jonathan half-jogged towards the door, calling out, “I’m coming, I’m coming!” He swung it open and immediately thrust the necklace towards Hopper.

Hopper blinked. “Hello to you too.”

Jonathan awkwardly pushed his hand out further and waited until Hopper opened his palm to drop it in. “Here you go.”

“I’m just messing with you, you know, it’s not like—” Hopper cleared his throat. He wasn’t wearing his uniform today, just an unzipped coat far too thin for February’s cold. “Thank you. El’s gonna love it.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s at Mike’s. I was gonna go pick her up with your mom actually. Karen redecorated her kitchen or somethin’? She wanted to show us. Both of us and I’m actually … really excited about it. Knowing her, we’re gonna probably be there for an hour and she’ll have baked brownies and dinner for us. Should be a good night.”

“It will be. Bring back leftovers.”

“Deal.”

“I was, uh, actually gonna pick up Nancy in a bit,” Jonathan said, colour rising to his cheeks. “She has this group project and has been at the library all afternoon with her partner. Steve and me were gonna get her then Mike since Will’s here and—we can drop you off? I guess?”

“No, it’s all good. It’ll make for a faster ride if we go separately but thanks.”

“Sure.” Jonathan stared at his sock-covered feet, curling and uncurling his toes. “You can come in. Mom’s in the shower, so.”

“Yeah, sure, great. Thanks.” Hopper stepped inside and shut the door. “Can I have a glass of water, if that’s okay?”

“Sure—” Jonathan thought about it, weighed the pros and cons, but still decided to add, “Jim.”

Hopper raised both of his eyebrows while he slowly removed his jacket. “That’s new.”

“Is Hopper better? Or like ... _James_?”

“Please don’t call me James,” Hopper said with a look of pure disgust that Jonathan couldn’t help but laugh at. “Can’t remember the last time I was called James. Call me whatever you wanna call me, kid. Aside from James.”

They fell into a steady pace on their way into the kitchen. Hopper folded his jacket over his shoulder and pulled a cup from the cabinet.

“I’ve got it,” Jonathan said, trying to take the cup from Hopper.

“No, I’m good. I have no idea why I asked when I know where everything is. It’s okay, I’m really—”

A crash. Shards of glass all over. Once shard sliced his ankle in one sharp and swift motion. 

“Jesus,” Hopper said, Jonathan’s shoulders already starting to hunch up, until— “I’m an idiot. Completely my fault. You okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t think that’d happen.” He rested his hand over Jonathan’s shoulder and gave him a firm squeeze.

Jonathan blinked. He looked at his ankle, the few drops of blood that dripped onto his sock, and the glass all around their feet. 

Will and Steve came running in.

“What hap—” Will fell silent but only for a second, surveying the scene until his eyes narrowed ever so slightly at Hopper. “What happened?”

“I dropped the cup without meaning to,” Hopper explained. “I’ll clean it all up but give me a minute to get some bandaids, alright? I should’ve been more careful. I’m sorry about all this. Are you alright?”

It felt like he wasn’t in his body but watching the scene unfold as an audience member. Hopper’s genuine apology, Will’s crossed arms, Steve approaching Jonathan with a hand against his back, and how all of it made Jonathan’s heart overflow with more than he thought he could bear. 

But he could bear it. He already was.

“I’m fine.” Jonathan meant it. “It was an accident, so don’t be sorry, but if you wanna clean it, who am I to stop you?”

Hopper snorted a laugh, drawing his hand back. “Fair enough. Be back.”

The moment he left the kitchen, Will tapped Jonathan’s shoulder. “Really just an accident?”

“Really,” Jonathan promised, sliding his hand over Steve’s. “He’s just Jim. Jim’s harmless.”

“Your ankle,” Steve murmured. “Wan’ me to kiss it better?”

“Go right ahead. I’m just gonna leave, so you can do that!” Will gave them a thumbs-up and a bright encouraging smile that had Steve and Jonathan laughing the moment he exited and into the moment Hopper returned with a set of bandaids. 

_._

_._

_._

“Don’t freak out,” Nancy said which naturally had Jonathan freaking out.

All curled up in Jonathan’s bed, he looked between Nancy and Steve, quickly understanding Steve already knew what was going on. 

“It’s fine,” Steve added. “Like. No big deal. The smallest of deals. Barely even a deal. Promise you won’t be weird about it.”

Jonathan tried to crush the ball of anxiety in his chest but it kept doubling in size. Nancy’s scarred palm against his and Steve’s leg bouncing over Jonathan’s helped but the nervous looks his girlfriend and boyfriend exchanged didn’t.

“I’m very anxious,” Jonathan said. “But I won’t be weird about it.”

“Okay, we’re the ones making it weird so I’ll just spit it out.” Nancy’s blue eyes warmed as she gripped his hand. “We saw Hopper sneaking out of your house this morning.”

It took Jonathan a second. 

And another.

Then another.

When it clicked, he was sure he had other emotions but the only one he could name was—“I’m very confused.”

Steve drummed his fingers along Jonathan’s knee. “If it makes you feel better, he didn’t see us sneaking out behind him!”

Nancy reached over Jonathan and Steve’s tangled legs to poke Steve’s ankle. “Even when Steve fell over in your backyard after whisper-screaming _holy shit, it’s Hopper_ ,” she said, a tender twinkle in her eyes.

Steve took Nancy’s hand and pressed a kiss against her knuckle. “And even after Nancy tripped over me and landed in my arms.”

“You’re both so stealthy,” Jonathan said fondly. “You two okay after that fall?”

“Only you would ask that and not have more questions about the man that snuck out of your house this morning.” The way Nancy said it, it was a compliment. “We’re fine. Are _you_?”

He mulled it over. “I mean, I have no reason not to be, I guess.”

“You can feel weird about it if you wanna,” Steve said. “I know I said not to be weird about it but now I’m concerned that you’re not being weird at all. A little weird is fine. A little weird is healthy.”

“Sure, it’s a little weird, but ... I don’t know,” he said honestly. 

Nancy nodded, unlacing their fingers only to rub his back. “Are you gonna mention this at all to your mom? Or Hop?”

And wasn’t that a great question?

.

.

.

His first instinct had been, _no way in hell._ How would he even bring it up? Who would it be less awkward with? Would he talk to both of them? Separately? _Together_?

So no, he wouldn’t talk to them.

Well. He thought he wouldn’t. 

He didn’t mean to.

He lasted until the end of the night.

.

.

.

Because the universe loved providing the most awkward timing possible, right as Nancy and Steve started to leave the Byers’s home, Nancy needing to be home from dinner and Steve picking up the kids from school after their science club, Hopper parked in the driveway.

“Shit,” Nancy muttered, freezing by the front door. “We can stay if—”

“It’s okay. I’m good. I doubt he’s gonna come up here and say he spent the night and I can be cool about this,” Jonathan said, hesitant.

Steve clapped his shoulder. “Love the confidence. You’ve got this.”

He shot them both smiles and shoved his clenched hands into his pockets to keep from kissing them goodbye or twirling a finger through Nancy’s hair or pushing down Steve’s stray curl. He watched them go right as Hopper came up. They waved and greeted Hopper, Jonathan able to make out the mild panic in their faces. He couldn’t tell from Hopper’s welcome smile if he had truly seen them or not this morning and just fervently hoped he wouldn’t acknowledge it.

As Hopper came closer, Jonathan noticed that he’d brought two Tupperware containers, was dressed down in flannel jeans, and had shaved his moustache and beard. 

“Hey,” Hopper greeted, tipping his chin up. “Hope I wasn’t interrupting anything?”

“What? What would you be interrupting?”

“Just—you know, your friends are leaving. Hope they aren’t leaving ‘cause of me.”

“Oh. They aren’t.”

“Good.”

“Great. Uh, mom’s still at work.”

“She’s not, actually. I’d picked her up. She took El shopping and I would’ve gone with them but figured it’d be nice for them to have time on their own. Went back home, made some spaghetti. Your mom said you like spaghetti?”

“Yes,” Jonathan said slowly. “Did you—you made it? For _me_?”

Hopper nodded. Behind him, Steve had driven his car out to the road and remained briefly in front of the house. Steve waved while Nancy gave two thumbs-up. Jonathan’s eyes crinkled with a smile so big he knew they saw it. Before he could wave back, Hopper thrust one container into his hand.

“It’s okay if you don’t like it. Tell me if it tastes disgusting.”

Jonathan’s hands warmed immediately. He held the container carefully, guarding it to his chest. “It won’t taste disgusting.”

“But if it does—”

“I’ll tell you,” Jonathan affirmed. “Gotcha.” Outside, the afternoon sun spilled out over their neighbourhood. A gentle breeze passed and rustled their lawn but the buds of leaves on the tree down the streets remained still. Jonathan always liked late March. Spring was his favourite season and the relief that came with it—all the light, all the life, all the growth around them—was unlike anything else.

“Why don’t you come inside? I know it’s not cold but it can never be too warm for some hot cocoa,” Jonathan said. “We’ve got some marshmallows left. Might as well use ‘em.”

Hopper cracked a smile. “Might as well.” 

.

.

.

They ended up back outside, sitting in the two lawn chairs permanently kept by the front door. Hopper had dragged his out into the sun on their front lawn. Even though Jonathan didn’t even have socks on, let alone his shoes, he followed Hopper’s lead. 

Several moments with them just sitting next to each other, tentatively sipping from their respective mugs, stretched between them. Jonathan pictured what Nancy and Steve must have seen this morning: a bleary-eyed Hopper sans any coffee sprinting towards his police truck. 

Jonathan hid his half-smile behind his mug. 

“So, uh,” Hopper said. “What were you guys doing before I came over?”

Jonathan tensed. He looked at Hopper from the corner of his eye, his heartbeat a staccato. “What?”

Hopper scratched the back of his neck, squinting at the sky. “Like. Studying?”

Dear god, Jonathan had no idea how to play this cool. “Oh. Yeah. No, I mean, we weren’t studying. We were just ... hanging out. What about you?”

“What?”

See? No. Idea. Jonathan allowed himself approximately one second to screw his eyes shut and internally bemoan himself and his existence before he attempted a casual shrug, trying to play it off like he hadn’t asked Hopper that as a reflex. “You know, last night. I know you dropped El off to spend the night and you and my mom ... _hung out_ for a bit.”

“Oh, we just—talked.”

Jonathan hadn’t meant to give Hopper such a pointed, I-Don’t-Believe-You look. He just sort of did, raising both eyebrows instinctively.

It was strange how almost adorable it was to see this gruff, over six-feet-tall, and tough Chief of Police blush as he gripped his highlighter-yellow and already half-finished mug of hot chocolate. “You know, your mother’s a really great—”

Deeply alarmed, Jonathan fixed his posture, sitting up straighter and ignoring how his hot cocoa sloshed. “ _Where_ are you going with this—”

“Nowhere! You should just know that I really care about—”

“I already know that,” Jonathan interrupted gently. “We don’t need to have this conversation. It’s fine.”

“Wait. This isn’t a _conversation_.”

“It’s not?”

“No!”

“So ...” Jonathan’s forehead wrinkled as he gestured to their seats and the space between them. “What is it?”

Hopper hummed thoughtfully. “It’s a chat.”

“Hopper?”

“Yeah?”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

Hopper laughed, a full belly-laugh, and nestled his mug between his knees. He rubbed his hands together and Jonathan had no idea why this required a hand-rubbing explanation but now he was a little scared. “Your mom and I are good friends,” he explained.

Jonathan waited for something else to follow but Hopper ended it there with a nearly nervous smile. Oh. He believed Hopper but he also knew Joyce just needed time—it might be slow, but the foundation was all there. Whenever it would happen, he doubted it would feel any different than it did now; all these weekly dinners, all five of them sprawled across the living room—typically Jonathan and Will with their homework, El with her practice work-sheets as she prepared to start school in the fall, Joyce stitching an item of clothing, Hop with his paperwork, all working mostly separately in the same space, listening to one of Joyce’s old tracks—and all the other little things. Joyce taking El shopping. Hopper trying out new dishes every week and alternating between each of the kids’ favourite meals. Will and Jonathan teaching El how to ride a bike as Joyce and Hopper watched from the front porch. Their parents in love would still look like this, wouldn’t it?

“Okay,” Jonathan said. He thought about Bob, the life he was supposed to have with them. How differently things could’ve been had Jonathan trusted his mother’s trust in Bob too. “And whenever that changes, I’ll still be okay with it.”

Hopper scratched the air below his chin like he’d forgotten his beard was gone. He stayed quiet for a while, the silence between them this time lighter. As Hop finished the rest of his hot cocoa, Jonathan's shoulders slumped, the repeated banner of _thisisawkwardthisissoawkward_ in the back of his head finally lowering.

“That means a lot,” Hopper said at last. “Not like I need to tell you this, but your mom deserves nothing but the best.”

“Better be prepared to give her that.” Jonathan was joking. Mostly. He didn’t really expect Hopper to turn to him, cup his shoulder, and respond firmly with,

“I intend to.”

Jonathan got too choked up and momentarily lost the ability to speak, so he mustered a thin smile and a nod.

Hopper’s mouth wasn’t smiling but his eyes were. He drew his hand back, resting it on his knee. “It’s important you know that I’m not just—I don’t _just_ care about you and your brother because your mom does. You know that, right? It’s very easy to be fond of you both.”

Jonathan would like to think he already knew that and his surprise stemmed solely from him not expecting to hear Hopper say something so genuine. But it softened him all the same and hit him right in the heart. 

“You know, you’ve got so much of your mother in you.” Hopper continued, revered. It sounded so composed that Jonathan wondered if he’d planned this, maybe wrote drafts of what to say, practiced in front of a mirror or something. “The way your eyes get that little crinkle when you smile, like right now—” He pointed at Jonathan’s eyes, inadvertently drawing out a confused laugh from Jonathan. “And how fiercely protective you both are, the way you carefully think things through—you’re so much like her.”

Jonathan glowed at the compliment. “Thank you. And if we’re making comparisons, well, you’re nothing like her first husband.”

Hopper chuckled. “Thank you?”

“And I might as well say that Will likes you too.”

“Just Will?”

“Hey, I’m sitting here with you. Talking to you voluntarily. I made you a drink. I always defend your cooking! What more proof do you need?”

“Does that mean you actually always like it or you’re just pretending—”

“The point is, you’re alright, you know?” Jonathan’s gaze drifted to his bare feet in the grass, at the faintly visible scar on his foot, shaped from a shard of glass. “More than alright. You’ve got a place here. You and El. It’s not like I’m tolerating you because of my mom, or tolerating El because of Will, I love El, she’s the best, and I—” He fell quiet at the pinched look Hopper made while rummaging through his pockets. “What is it?”

“One second. Don’t know if you could tell, but I came here to talk to you about—”

“Listen, I already know you spent the night, you don’t have to—”

“ _What?”_ Hopper’s voice came out strangled, his head whipping towards Jonathan so quickly it cracked. “How did you—what? I only fell asleep, I promise I didn’t—”

Jonathan refused to hear the rest of Hopper’s sentence. “I believe you! I just thought ... if that’s not why you wanted to talk to me, then why?”

Hopper procured something from his back pocket. He opened his hand and held it towards Jonathan and in his palm sat a silver band, glittering under the sunlight. “Used to belong to my uncle. I was really close to him. He never had kids and his brother, my father, didn’t know how to be the best dad, so my uncle stepped in. Really took care of us until he passed when I was ‘bout twenty. He gave me his rings. I wear one with me at all times.” He pulled the chain around his neck out from underneath his shirt where an identical band hung, golden instead of silver like the ring he’d just given Jonathan. “If you want it, I—I want you to have it.”

Jonathan’s throat closed up. “Are you sure?”

“I promise, it’s not a problem if you don’t want—”

“I do. I ... I really do, I just ...” 

Hopper dropped the ring into Jonathan’s palm and folded his hand around it. “You don’t have to wear it. You can just keep it. I’d like it if you just knew it was yours to keep.” 

Jonathan slid the ring over his left hand’s middle finger and marvelled at how easily it fit. 

“It’s a bit old but—”

“It’s perfect.” 

Hopper’s half-smile lit his face up brighter than the sun. “My uncle, he had three other rings like it. Makes four in total. It’s a little funny how that worked out, you know? Feels like one for each of my kids. I thought I’d end up giving three to Sara when she got older. One for when she turned thirteen, ‘cuz that’s the first _teen_ year and that’s important, I know, and then eighteen and on her wedding day.”

“I wish I’d gotten to know her,” Jonathan said softly. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. She sounds like she was special.” He thought about the blue scrunchie on Hopper’s wrist, the same one he’d sometimes see on El’s wrist too, how sometimes El would spend an entire Saturday with them while Hop drove to visit Sara. She would’ve gotten along with El and Will, Joyce would’ve loved her, and another girl in the house would be nice. Sara had a place in this family too.

Hopper smiled wetly, running his thumb over his ring. “She was. I was gonna wait ‘till your birthday to give you one but it’s not for a few months. Your brother’s is what, in a few weeks? So that’s fine. And El’s had hers for a while. Since your mom gave El that pretty necklace, I thought it’d be nice to, y’know ... but that’s not the only reason why. I’d been thinking ‘bout it. Just wasn’t too sure with the timing and if it’d be too much too fast or not or if I’d be overstepping a line.”

“What do you mean?”

“This might sound like a stupid thing to say, but you know, you’ve already got a father. I don’t wanna disrespect that.”

“What are you—my father’s disrespected the fact that he’s my father. Disrespect that. Please. Disrespect _him_.” Jonathan stroked the length of his ring, thought about all the things Hopper had given him just so Jonathan could have them because he thought Jonathan deserved them and not as some tactic to make Jonathan forget he was upset—home-cooked meals, rides home from work when Joyce needed the car, an unprompted bowl of sliced apples, and now, this ring that Jonathan would never take off. All his father had ever given him was the scar on his foot and both an aversion to fighting and the ability to throw a good punch. 

“You haven’t crossed a line,” Jonathan assured him and pulled a Jim Hopper classic, gripping Hop’s shoulder and looking him right in the eye. “I love it. It means so much to me. Even more, knowing that it was for Sara. I really—are you crying?”

“Oh, it’s just—” Hopper laughed wetly, wiping a tear before it rolled down his cheek. “Happy tears. Good tears. Honestly.”

Jonathan felt his eyes prick with tears too. He knew he was a crier, had spent a long time trying not to be, but he didn’t fight it. He found it a little beautiful, all the forms happiness took on, to get to _feel_ it both in his smile and his tears. It made it all the more real and the more real it was, the tighter he could hold onto it. And the strange flickering light he felt inside that kept brightening and brightening, the same steady way it had over the past few years as the love in his life got bigger and bigger, was something he would never let go of.

“I know what you mean,” Jonathan said. “Could you—I mean, if you want, could you tell me about her? Sara?”

Hopper beamed.

And so he spent the next twenty minutes listening to stories about Sara Hopper, how Hopper would comb her hair and then she would comb Hopper’s beard, how she always woke up a minute before sunrise, how she spent a week being mad at Hopper and her mother for not adding an _h_ to her name when she was five. He was in the middle of laughing at the last story when Joyce arrived, parking in their driveway.

Will and El emerged from the backseat, each with a shopping bag in hand. Joyce came out of the driver’s seat with a confused but bright smile, calling out, “Enjoying the weather?”

“And Jonathan’s hot cocoa.” Hopper lifted his empty mug and tapped its rim. 

Will’s mouth dropped as he and El ran across the grass towards them. “You finished the marshmallows?”

Jonathan winced. “Yes?”

“That’s fine because—” Will pointed both hands at El, the shopping bag in his hand flinging wildly.

El plucked a brand-new bag of marshmallows from within the clothes in her shopping bag. “We bought some! Jonathan. Please teach me how to make it.”

“Sure, I’d love—”

“Hold on,” Joyce said, coming up behind El and Will. She slung an arm across both of their shoulders, her confused smile only widening at El. “Are you doing what I think you’re doing? Trynna get out of the math practice you were complaining in the car?”

“Not complaining,” El protested. 

“Yes complaining,” Will said and nudged her. “I told you I’d help you!”

“Maybe she just wants to spend time with me,” Jonathan interjected. “Why are we assuming the worst?”

“No, they’re right.” El sighed, holding the marshmallows to her chest. “But time with you sounds nice. I like that more now.”

Jonathan rose to his feet with his empty mug in hand. “I like that more now too.”

“How ‘bout this,” Hopper said. “You can skip today’s practice if you help us cook dinner and, I don’t know, learn how to cook something new. Hot cocoa doesn’t count. That sound fair, Joyce?”

Joyce hummed her approval.

“Deal,” El said.

Will raised his hand. “Who else is cooking tonight?”

“Hop _insisted_ I let him do it tonight so he could once and for all show us he’s not just a passable cook but an _excellent_ one,” Joyce explained. “So I’m sitting this one out.”

Will looked between Hopper and El. “So it’ll just be these two? Hm. Can I help? Or actually, I’m _going_ to help. Not because I don’t trust you!”

Hopper stood, folding his chair up. “Sounds like a good plan to me. Alright, let’s wash our hands. Show me the clothes you bought after dinner, El, I’ll see them after we—wait, it was only four dollars? Okay, you gotta show me now.”

Hopper, El, and Will rushed inside. Jonathan noticed Joyce grabbing another bag from the car so he lingered on the front lawn. “Had fun?”

“A blast.” Joyce shut the car door and locked it. She joined Jonathan on the grass but didn’t start towards the house so neither did he. “We picked Will from Mike’s on the way back. I saw Nancy.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! You know, I really like her, and your friendship with her and Steve is—”

“Hop saw them sneaking out this morning, didn’t he?”

“And they saw Hop sneaking out, didn’t they?”

Jonathan and Joyce exchanged short nods. She was the first to break into laughter, clutching her knees and nearly falling over, and he couldn’t help but immediately join her.

“I know, I know nothing happened with you two,” Jonathan said through his laughter, relieved at how not-awkward this all was. “Might’ve talked to Hopper about it. Just a little.”

“Do you believe that, though?”

“Yeah. Let me guess. You two just ended up talking all night and it got late so he just slept over?”

“Yup. Same with you three?”

Not exactly. But Joyce didn’t need to know that. “Yup.”

Joyce reached up and smoothed back his hair with gentle fingers. “Anything you wanna talk about? About any of it.”

“Maybe later. But there is something I wanted to say.” He swallowed past the lump in his throat, idly twirling Hopper’s ring around his finger. “I wish ... I wish I’d been nicer to Bob.”

“Honey, you don’t—”

“No, I do. I just—I’m sorry. For all of it. It wasn’t fair and you deserved more time and he deserved so much more, the very least a real chance from me. I’m sorry I didn’t give him that.”

She dropped her shopping bags onto the grass. On her tiptoes, she looped her arms around his neck and pulled him into a hug that he couldn’t have returned any faster than he did. “He knew. He knew why you were harder to reach wasn’t his fault and it wasn’t yours. Understand?”

He closed his eyes, allowing himself to melt from her warm touch. Another apology sat on the tip of his tongue but he didn’t release it, let it dissolve in his mouth as he clung to her tighter, his arms winding around her back.

“Hop gave you his ring, huh?”

“Mhm. Never taking it off.”

The front door was half-open. From within the house, Hopper and Will’s intermingled cheers rang clearly. _This is your colour,_ Hopper proclaimed over the unmistakable noise of Will’s clapping, always recognizable by its unbelievably high volume from him just smacking his palms together, and El’s delighted laughter. Joyce let out a laugh made of pure joy before she kissed Jonathan’s forehead.

And Jonathan just held her closer as the rest of their family’s laughter grew louder from within their home.

**Author's Note:**

> this was really different from what i usually write but man was it cleansing, so thanks for giving it a shot. i hope you're well. i love you!!!!!!


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